


This Girl's A Silhouette

by silverlining99



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-06
Updated: 2010-04-06
Packaged: 2017-10-29 07:31:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/317317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silverlining99/pseuds/silverlining99
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Christine is good at pretending.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Girl's A Silhouette

**Author's Note:**

> help_haiti story for shaxophile

Sometimes Christine feels like she should have gone into acting; she could have had twice the success and, at a _conservative_ estimate, probably half the danger.

 _That_ is how good she's gotten at pretending.

She excels at it, she really does. She pretends, for example, that she doesn't bristle sometimes at the strictures of protocol, at taking orders she doesn't always agree with. She pretends that she's satisfied being just a nurse. She pretends, on a daily basis, that she doesn't want _more_. She pretends that she's never lonely, that she never daydreams about love and a family and happiness instead of casual encounters with men she can't imagine spending a year with, much less the rest of her life.

She pretends, every single time, that those encounters actually do a damn thing for her.

She's gotten so good at pretending, in fact, that nobody ever seems to notice when she doesn't get what she actually wants.

She's gotten so very, very good that it comes as something of a shock when somebody finally does.

~*~*~*~*~*~

By the time she receives her orders transferring her to the _Enterprise_ , Christine has spent nine months aboard a medical supply ship on the verge of going out of her mind. She should, she knows, be grateful at having secured a position on the flagship in the first place, even if she had to while away the better part of a year waiting for it to be ready to take on crew.

She is instead completely and utterly sick of routine supply and relief missions conducted under the command of an arrogant hothead who, she thinks, is so far past his prime he wouldn't know cutting edge medical techniques if he encountered them on the business end of a laser scalpel.

Dr. Puri is more a relief than she could ever have imagined, for the entire two weeks she gets to work with him before everything goes all to hell. He lets her know that his standards are high and spells out clear expectations, and then he lets her be, lets her do her job with minimal interference.

Then he dies.

Leonard McCoy steps in to fill his shoes. Straight off the bat, Christine doesn't like him.

She's met his sort before: uptight and rude and prone to barking orders in a way that implies he expects everyone to do things wrong until they miraculously prove otherwise. When word comes down that he'll continue as CMO once repairs are complete -- and, she thinks peevishly one night, once he actually _graduates_ \-- she comes close to putting in for a transfer.

In the end she decides to grin and bear it, as usual. At the very least, she figures, she knows from seeing him operate on Pike that he's not an imbecile.

That alone, depressingly enough, is more than she can say for a lot of other doctors in the fleet.

So she stays. She grits her teeth and tries to make it work, mostly by taking a certain misguided, perverse joy out of doing her best to deprive him of any decent excuse to do the bitching and moaning that comes so naturally to him. It's not anything she's _proud_ of; she should strive for perfection in her work because it's her _job_ and it's _important_ , not because taking the wind out her boss's oft-irate sails is her idea of a good time.

Still. It is.

There's something undeniably thrilling, is the thing, in being able to shut him down fast with nothing more than a calm glance and a flagrant display of competence. Something about keeping her cool and watching his scowl smooth out in a progression from taken aback to begrudgingly, reluctantly chastened. In a choice between being indignant or entertained over him having the _gall_ to implicitly question whether she deserves her promotion to Head Nurse in the wake of so many casualties -- him, of all people -- well. She chooses the latter.

She has, after all, learned over time that the simplest way to mask frustration is to channel it whenever possible into something else entirely.

And for a few months it works. Barely, but it does. Because the fact is -- and it's annoying, but still a fact -- McCoy's not that bad a guy to work for. More than not being an imbecile, he's brilliant at his work and she has to give him that. And yes, so he's a little gruff and even downright snappish far more often than she feels is remotely called for, but he does come around, slowly, in important ways.

He starts trusting her. Once he's figured out she can be counted on to do things fast and do them right, he starts reducing the urgency in his voice when he rattles off instructions in surgery. He starts absently tipping his head in acknowledgment when she updates him on patients instead of hitting her with a string of probing questions that might be called for if reading a biobed display _hadn't_ been the first damn thing she learned in nursing school.

The day he smiles at her when she catches him watching her work, instead of just narrowing his eyes and turning away with a frown, she files it away and considers it progress. And the day he asks her to monitor the captain's condition (after Kirk's sixth surgery in three months) instead of doing it himself, she actually lets herself enjoy the surge of victorious relief at having finally captured some small measure of his stingily guarded respect.

(She pushes aside, too uneasy to contemplate it, any thought of why his smile makes the skin on her arms tingle with goosebumps, or why his entrusting her with the captain feels like more than just a professional accomplishment.)

And... then there's Nurse Lynd.

Annie Lynd is twenty-three years old, fresh out of the Academy, smart as a whip, and such a chaotic bundle of nerves that Christine has moments of wanting to throttle her. She takes pride, is all, in being able to believe that her nursing staff is the best in the fleet, that her nurses are perfectly trained, that stupid mistakes do _not_ get made on her watch.

Lynd, try as Christine does to keep an eye on her, makes stupid, stupid mistakes.

Worse, she makes the fragile detente Christine has brokered with McCoy come crumbling apart without any warning at all.

Christine is taking advantage of a quiet evening shift to get caught up on performance reviews when the doors to the surgical bay slide open and McCoy stomps out, leading Lynd in front of him with a firm hand on her shoulder. She looks, incredibly, more miserable than Christine has ever seen her, her face flushed and her eyes cast down at the floor. "Chapel," McCoy snaps, steering Lynd toward his office, "help M'Benga with post-op."

Ignoring the old, familiar bristle at the particular tone of his voice and -- wth more difficulty -- her surge of annoyance that he is clearly about to take it upon himself to deal with Lynd, Christine moves reluctantly to obey. It's a simple task, transferring an ensign for a few hours of rest and monitoring after a minor gallbladder procedure, and when she finishes setting all the biofeeds the door to McCoy's office is still closed.

It takes all her self-control to resist going in and intervening. Instead she occupies herself with everything she can find to do out on the floor, so she's watching when Lynd finally emerges.

What she sees makes her anger flare too fast and fierce to get her usual control of it. Lynd comes out chewing her lower lip and wipes a hand surreptitiously under each eye, and then on her skirt, before signing off duty at a computer terminal and walking slowly out of the medical bay.

Christine doesn't stop to think. She lets herself into McCoy's office, a low-toned "how dare you?" spilling out of her mouth before she can stop it.

McCoy just glances at her calmly from his seat behind the desk. "That was fast. Problem, Chapel?"

"What did you say to her? And where do you get off, dismissing one of _my_ nurses without consulting with me first? And just who do you think you are --"

"I'm pretty sure I'm the CMO on this ship," he cuts in. He shakes his head slowly and gathers two glasses in his hand, gets up to take them back to the small drink cabinet that he keeps. Christine frowns, wonders why they would have been sharing a drink, of all things, as he continues dryly, "And as such, entitled to do whatever the hell I see fit when it comes to my staff. Which includes you nurses, by the way, if you could maybe get on board with that for once."

"'You nurses,'" she echoes. "I knew it. Arrogant, self-righteous --"

"Nurse Lynd," he interrupts again. "She's a problem. I don't want you coddling her anymore, got it?"

As if, Christine thinks, as if she's ever coddled a person a day in her life. "If you have a problem with how I manage my nurses," she snaps, "you take it up with me. And you can damn well do me the courtesy of making it a discussion instead of a handing down of dictates."

"This _is_ a discussion," he says impatiently, and rolls his eyes. "Look, Chapel, I don't want you coddling her because I don't want to risk her getting complacent. I'll tell you what I told her -- if I thought she couldn't hack it she'd be off the floor and neck-deep in records maintenance so fast her head'd be spinning. She _can_ hack it, and I expect her to, and I expect you to help me make sure she doesn't become a goddamn waste of a hell of a lot of potential, all right?"

As the pieces fall into place, Christine's not sure whether to be embarrassed, or even angrier. She glares at him. "You could have just said that from the start."

"And miss this?" He smirks. "You agree, I take it."

"I... yes." She clenches her jaw. "I haven't been coddling her. It just wasn't going to do a shred of good to push her too hard before she --"

"Knew you well enough to deal with tough love. Yeah, I get that. But the honeymoon's over. She has to figure out she can trust us, if we're ever going to be able to trust her." McCoy sighs. "Which raises the question, Chapel: when are you going to figure out the same thing and stop looking for reasons to hate me?"

Christine blinks at his smugly challenging expression. "I-- I'm not-- I have no idea what you're--"

"Spare me. You've been giving me the evil eye from day one. Every time I turn around you're _staring_."

"I'm _not_ \--"

"I'd have an easier time believing that if I were, I don't know, _blind_. You think I don't notice you waiting for me to make some mistake big enough for you to call me on it?"

Her jaw drops. "The only thing I've been waiting for, McCoy, is for you to get over yourself. I've been waiting for you to realize that none of us give a damn what you did before Starfleet or how close you and the captain are or how many words you need to tear us down to whatever size you think we should be. I'm waiting for you to get your head out of your ass and _notice_ that we're all here for the same reason you are, to keep these idiots alive as long as possible."

She has to stop to take a deep breath, to stop shaking. McCoy stares at her, lips slightly parted. "Wow," he finally says. He shakes his head a little, as if to clear it. "I knew you had it in you, but that was damned impressive."

"What -- what the hell does that mean?"

"You, speaking your mind for once. Nice to _finally_ meet you, Nurse Chapel." She gapes at him, shocked into silence. He sits in a half-lean on the edge of his desk and raises a single -- smug, she thinks -- eyebrow at her. "Cat got your tongue?"

"Not a fucking chance," she swears. "Was this... Are you playing games with me? Are you _trying_ to piss me off?"

"As a matter of fact, no. Not that it hadn't occurred to me once or twice." He frowns and waves her off when she opens her mouth to -- well, to curse at him again, most likely. She's not really thinking ahead at the moment. "Look, I'd had it up to here with Lynd and couldn't avoid dealing with it anymore. This is just... an unexpected side benefit."

Christine is, quite honestly, completely unused to being at such a loss for words. She thinks on her feet; she rolls with the punches, covers, adjusts. Her fingers curl unconsciously into fists at her sides. "Chapel," McCoy says with a deep frown, eying her hands, "if you're thinking about hitting me, I'd rather you didn't. Just my two cents."

"Well, shit," she says shakily, scrambling for something, anything to volley back at him. Her voice drips with sarcasm. "Times like these are kiss or kill, McCoy. You really want to narrow my options right now?" His expression goes slack with surprise and she barks out a short laugh. "God, wouldn't _that_ be something."

McCoy stares at her. "Well," he says at last, and clears his throat, "what the hell are you waiting for, an engraved invitation?"

She can't even -- he's not serious, she thinks. He can't be. She folds her arms and digs her heels in. "You are unbelievable," she hisses. "Do you think you're funny? God, I hope so, because if you think I would-- after you-- of all the _nerve_ \--"

"God in heaven, woman, do you ever _stop_?" he groans, and pushes off the edge of the desk to stalk towards her. He's on her before she can even think to react, catching her face between rough palms and kissing her hard before releasing her so abruptly she has trouble not stumbling backwards. "All that yapping and it still takes you forever to say something real? Christ."

She punches him hard in the shoulder. She tries hard not to think about how astonishingly _right_ his lips felt against hers, or how the sheer presumption and aggressiveness make her thoughts veer in a hopeful direction. "I don't yap," she snaps. "And I was joking, you arrogant _prick_ , I didn't mean --"

"Christine," he interrupts. The sound of her name stops her cold. "Let me tell you something, sweetheart, you're a terrible liar."

She should have, she will realize later, known then and there that anything involving him would be trouble, pure and simple. "Screw you," she says instead. "You have a lousy bedside manner. Nobody's perfect."

He ducks his head and laughs quietly at that. She becomes acutely aware of her heartbeat, rapid in her chest, and when he steps forward she backs up. "What are you doing?"

"I was going to kiss you again," he says easily. "Like I've been wanting to for weeks. Problem with that?"

"Yes!" she cries. "Of course I have a problem with that, I don't even like you!"

"Still lying."

"I'm _not_. You're horrible."

His mouth twists ruefully. Christine fights not to lick her own lips. "Right," he says flatly. "Well, then." He glances at the clock on the computer panel by the door. "Shift's over. Have a nice evening, Chapel."

~*~*~*~*~*~

What she _should_ do is go to her quarters, work on her dissertation, and get some rest, since she's scheduled for a one-shift turnaround.

What she does instead is go to her quarters, curl up on her bed, and fall into a fitful sleep that she gives up on entirely when she finds herself awake and staring at the ceiling two hours before she has to report for duty. She tells herself, as she stalks through the corridors, that she's going to have this out and be done with it, and get on with her day and her life.

Three seconds after McCoy answers his door, looking grumpy and rumpled and holding a tumbler in one hand, she tells herself she's in a lot of trouble if she doesn't walk away.

She doesn't. She stares at him until he scowls. "Are you standing there for your health, Chapel, or is there something I can do for you?"

Christine frowns and chews on the inside of her cheek. "I manage the nurses," she says tightly. " _Me_. There's -- there's a _system_ , McCoy. There are rules."

"I manage the entire goddamn medical bay," he counters evenly. "Deal with it."

The casual, challenging authority in his voice sends an unexpected frisson of sensation down her spine. She doesn't particularly want to dwell on what that's all about. "I meant every word I said. Your head _is_ up your ass and I _did_ want to hit you."

His mouth quivers, just the smallest betrayal of amusement as he shakes his head tiredly, tosses back the last of his drink. "Trust me, honey, I'm well aware of both of those facts."

"And... I really don't like you," she says helplessly. He arches an eyebrow and every one of her lofty intentions vanish in a flash. She steps forward, into his quarters, steps right into his waiting arms. "At all."

He shrugs and kisses her, a short brush of his lips to hers. "Jim has always claimed I'm an acquired taste," he says dryly. There's a thud as glass hits carpet, and then his hands glide across her hips and up her back. "Something to work on, at least. You up for it?"

Christine closes her eyes and rests her forehead against his chest. She tries to breathe normally. "Is this always your approach with women?"

"Only the ones _I_ do like." His voice is warm, and his hands gentle as he tips her head back and ducks to kiss her again. He lingers, and then his tongue teases at her lips in a careful coax. It's too light, too respectful, not really what she likes but. Well. She's used to compromising in these matters, to playing her part. His next words give her an edge of hope, besides. "I want you," he says roughly, bluntly. "I want you in my bed."

"Well," she says. It's almost palpable, the sense of a new mask slipping into place, a particular role presenting itself to be played. "What the hell are you waiting for, an engraved invitation?"

He laughs and starts steering her deeper into his quarters. His knees bump her legs as they shuffle along. "Gotta say, I think that'd be a little formal for what I have in mind."

Christine lets herself, more and more, submit to the support of his arms and the guidance of his body, the sway of movement as she winds her arms around his neck and drops her head back, exposes her throat to the graze of his teeth. "Okay. Okay, Let's... go with that. Let's --"

His mouth steals the rest of the thought, but it's no matter. The backs of her legs hit his bed and he eases her down, follows closely with his hands skimming up her arms to push them over her head and then back down to tug her skirt up over her hips. He settles comfortably between her legs, a firm press of weight, and the heavy fabric of his pants is rough against the thin, sensitive skin of her inner thighs. With her legs around him, with every movement of his body she can feel the bulge of his erection, and she thinks of him breaching her with it, thinks of all the ways this could play out, the ways she _wishes_ it would.

The thoughts, at least, make her shiver and ache, moan against his lips, move to yank at his shirt and start the real process of peeling off clothes. But for all that he goes along he's stubbornly patient about it all, getting continually distracted by newly revealed swathes of skin, by kissing and licking and stroking his way into familiarity with every part of her body she usually keeps covered and then some. She keeps praying he'll discover something that sets him off, some particular curve, some scent, _something_ that will push him beyond this careful control.

But he just catches her lips, eases down atop her. His cock nestles against her, slides between her folds, along her clit. He seems content like that, rocking slowly and concentrating on kissing her, slow and sweet. She, on the other hand, is frustrated by each minor shock of sensation as he grinds against her - by everything that is almost, not quite, and never going to be. "Please," she mumbles, desperate to move on, to distract. "Please, I want you, I want you in me, just--"

He hesitates, but then his body shifts and he slides deep and holds still there, breathing slow and steady against her shoulder. His teeth nip at the shelf of her collarbone. "Jesus, yes," she thinks she hears him whisper, but she can't be sure she's making out the muffled words correctly. Not while his mouth is dragging across her skin, never lifting from its path across her chest to one nipple, which he pulls between his lips in a slow draw. Only when he finally raises his head and meets her eyes does he nudge his hips gently against hers, a silent message that she was right, that this _is_ how this is going to go.

That she should have known better than to hope for anything other than everything she's ever gotten before.

Men, she has always found, tend to be the most ridiculous of disappointments. They huff and they puff, and then when it comes down to it they go all tender and soft. That's been her experience, at least, and while she's of course _aware_ that not every man is inclined towards sweet nothings and _lovemaking_ , she has yet to run across that other sort.

Even now, apparently. McCoy moves on her, and in her, and breathes, "you're so goddamn beautiful," right into the shell of her ear, and the sound of the words nearly makes her cringe.

She figures it's the luck of the draw, in a way -- but something has always stopped her from actively seeking out something different, or even asking the men she tends to attract for something else. Something is wrong with her, she knows. She's _doing_ something wrong.

She just never could figure out how to do it any other way. And here, now, it's case in point. It's same old, same old; it's _status fucking quo_. The familiar frustration keeps bubbling up, the disappointment that so much can feel so good without _going_ anywhere. McCoy is busily proving himself expert at finding new spots on her neck that seem hard-wired to her spine, and the brush of his thumb across her nipple makes her ache, and the steady pace he sets, the roll of his hips, has her tense and damn near hurting for the release she can't ever seem to find.

And frustration aside she's usually okay with this; she's learned well how to cope, how to take what she can get. How to endure.

This time, with him, she wants more than anything else for it to be over. She quickens her breath carefully and squeezes her legs around him, digs her fingers into his back, tightens around him in a carefully controlled flutter of muscles. She lets herself make sharp noises and seeks out his mouth to kiss him hungrily as he speeds up, as his thrusts go fast and erratic.

And then he's done, and still but for the brush of his lips across her face. She makes herself relax beneath him despite the unresolved thrum coursing through her body. She loosens her limbs and sighs as he pulls out and moves to the side. "I should -- shift change is soon."

McCoy props himself up on one elbow and gazes down at her, his eyes slightly narrowed. "I'm pretty sure I can guarantee you a pass on being late."

"Haven't you learned your lesson about getting all power-drunk on me?" she says, forcing a smile. She sits up and glances around, mapping out the location of her various bits of clothing before going after them. Before she can get up, though, he catches her with one arm snaking around her waist, hauling her down onto her back.

"You're not really leaving me with much choice," he says quietly. He kisses her slowly and runs his hand along the curves of her waist, delves between her legs. "We've got unfinished business."

Christine turns her face away and presses her thighs together. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"No?" He nuzzles his nose across her cheek, his breath warm, his lips curving against her skin. "Remember what I told you about being a terrible liar?"

Panic flutters in her chest and she squirms to get away, horrified. "I. I have to go."

"What -- wait a second, would you? I was just --" She ignores him, scrambles for her clothes. "Christine, what the hell?"

"I could ask the same thing," she snaps, blindly grasping for a distraction as she struggles to make sure she isn't getting anything inside out. "You know what, I'm sick of your presumptuous-- do you think it's charming, calling a woman a liar?"

He sits up, anger clouding his features. "I think sometimes you call a spade a spade, charming or not."

"Screw you." She hates him after all, she thinks; she hates him for turning everything that has ever worked for her on its head, for ruining every kind of peace she'd learned to have with herself and with the concept that less than everything could still be _enough_ , for being indecent enough to call her on it, too. She yanks her top on so fast she hears threads snap in a seam somewhere. "This didn't happen. Don't ever touch me again."

~*~*~*~*~*~

She doesn't see him for two days, a scheduling mercy. Her shift is uneventful, some kind fates perhaps intervening to give her M'Benga in a particularly good mood and the crew serving up a constant stream of minor but attention-consuming accidents and illnesses. She signs off duty five minutes early and manages to escape without seeing hide nor hair of McCoy.

For about an hour that's a relief. Then the brooding starts -- nearly four straight shifts' worth.

She has never hated having a day off more than she does now. (She has, of course, a long track record of hating the places her mind insists on going, but she's never had quite such an impossible time of distracting herself.)

The thing is -- the aggravating, annoying, stupid, _pointless_ thing is, she knows perfectly well what she needs to do. She needs to grow a spine, is what she needs to do; she needs to swallow her pride for once in her life and move right on to finding a new version of it, one that looks a lot less like obstinately burying her head in the sand and more like opening her mouth and saying something that means something, for once.

She also knows perfectly well that _that_ is not going to happen. Christine may be a lot of things, but skilled at stripping away her own defenses, even for the greater good, is not one of them.

It never has been. When all else fails, the act is everything.

By the time she reports for her next shift, she feels she has at least that in order. She walks into the medical bay with her head high, and she doesn't so much as look into McCoy's office as she logs in for duty.

Which... turns out not to matter. When she turns around from the computer console, he's standing behind her. She flinches, feels heat rise in her cheeks. "Morning," he says brusquely. His gaze slides over her face, barely a pause in that silent acknowledgment of her presence. "Listen, Lieutenant Gibbons was in again yesterday and we settled on the laryngotomy. Scheduled it for today so you could assist -- not much call for those these days, thought it might interest you."

Christine stares at him warily. "Yes, it does."

McCoy just nods. "Review the pre-op notes, then; we start in an hour. I still need you on the rest of today's procedures, too, so I hope you've had a chance to go over --"

"I have," she says sharply. He shrugs slightly and strides away without another word. Christine watches him go, torn on how to interpret his straightforward demeanor, then tries to focus her mind on getting caught up on all the charts so she can dive into Gibbons's record.

The surgery goes well, a brief and controlled procedure without complications. Only once does McCoy throw out anything other than standard instructions, and then only to quiz her on the major risks of bisecting the thyroid. She answers with narrowed eyes, unable to help but wonder how he even knows the focus of her research in endocrinology.

She's sure that he does. There's just something in his expression, as he waits for her to reply.

The rest of the surgeries that day are the same, him watching her coolly and prompting her for nothing more than her knowledge and her responsibilities. By the time she helps Lynd set up the biofeeds, her head is throbbing and she almost wishes she could kill him with her mind. The sound of McCoy's voice, saying her name, makes her flinch and hit the wrong button on the console, setting off a cascading input error. "Fuck," she mutters under her breath.

Lynd touches her wrist. "I've got it. See what he needs, I'll have this ready for you to check when you get back."

Christine nods and sets her shoulders back before turning and marching for McCoy's office door. "Yes, Doctor?"

He glances at her over his desk. "Lynd. She was a lot better in there today."

Christine blinks. "I-- Right. I tried to work with her on a few things the other day. I think it helped."

"Must have," he says with a short nod. "Keep it up. Shift change is past due, so you two finish up and get going."

"Of course," she says quietly. She's confused and more than a little curious, but discretion and avoidance win out. She returns to Lynd and finds everything set up in proper order. "Perfect," she offers. "Doctor McCoy's pleased, too."

The tips of Lynd's ears go pink, and Christine manages a smile for the first time all day. She sends Lynd off duty and does a quick review of all the post-ops with the incoming nurses, then trudges back to her quarters. She doesn't even try to keep her mind off McCoy, knows full well that it would be a futile effort at this point.

So she broods. He is, she thinks, making some sort of point and being insufferably subtle for once; she can't for the life of her figure out what he's up to with his carefully casual attitude and firmly professional demeanor.

It's not what she expected.

It annoys the hell out of her.

She lasts two hours before stalking through the corridors to his quarters. "Can I come in?" she asks tightly, once he answers the door. He steps aside with an exaggerated, inviting wave of his hand, and she purses her lips as she slips past him. "This won't work."

McCoy shoots her a questioning look. "This being..."

"Don't play dumb," Christine says snidely. "It's not an attractive look on you."

"It's not an attractive look on _anyone_ ," he says with a snort. "And I'm not playing. I don't know what you're on about, I'm tired, and I'm not in the mood for this crap, so say whatever you came to say and go away."

He has, she has to admit, a fair point. Still, she cringes inwardly and forces herself to count down from five, to keep the flare of temper in check. "All right," she finally manages. "We have to be able to work together. Obviously. So -- I'm sorry. There. Can we just put... what happened, behind us?"

He stares at her for a second, eyebrows knit together. "If there was anything different about today, that's on you --"

"Don't you dare, McCoy. I'm --" She throws her hands up in frustration. "I'm trying to do the right thing here, okay? Could you at least _try_ to meet me halfway?"

"Look, _Chapel_ , if I had the slightest goddamn clue what made you fly off the handle in the first place, I might not only understand why the hell you're here and whether we have a problem at all, but I'd _gladly_ do whatever I could to fix it." Folding his arms, he levels an expectant gaze on her. "Long as you're keeping me in the dark, though, you can also keep that cross on your own damn shoulders."

Christine presses one palm to her leg and digs her nails into her thigh, tries to focus on the sharp pain instead of the surge of... something that his scowl and his forceful, irate tone cause in her. "You're full of it," she tries unsteadily. "You know perfectly well --"

"I _don't_ , Christine."

"You wouldn't let it go!" A hot flush rises in her cheeks. "I just... You wouldn't let it go."

"What, that you hadn't... yeah, no. I wasn't going to let that go." His expression shifts into something that looks like disgust. "That's me being horrible again, I suppose. How dare I be willing to refrain from being _insulted_ that you apparently thought you needed to fake it? And insult to injury, I had the nerve to still want to get you there."

Christine opens her mouth, but words refuse to come out. When he takes a step closer to her, clearly just getting started, she backs up. "Since we've solved my crime of the century, let's figure out what I can do to make it up to you. Leaving you alone and acting like nothing happened obviously wasn't enough -- should I go ask Jim to formally reprimand me? Put it on my record, what an insensitive asshole I am?"

To her horror, she feels tears prick her eyes at the same time as an insane desire for him to touch her. "Stop it."

"You want me to stop it? Then you go. Tell me what made you so --"

"I -- it wasn't going to happen," she blurts out. "I knew it wasn't, okay? I couldn't -- I _can't_."

McCoy rolls his eyes. "Yeah, so? You didn't need to -- a lot of women don't come from --"

"From anything?" she snaps. " _Ever_?"

He blinks, almost owlish in the surprise that takes over his face. "You mean..." Christine bites her lip hard and stares at the floor. "Christ. Have you... I mean, there are medical reasons --"

"God!" she cries, and burns with embarrassment. "There's nothing wrong with me, all right? Not... physically."

"You're sure?"

She shoots him a nasty look. "No, actually, in all my years of medical training I've never bothered to _see a fucking doctor_ for myself."

"Fine, fine." He throws his hands up, surrenders the point. "So you just. _Haven't_. You couldn't just tell me that?"

"Right, because you've got a great track record at jumping for joy when people don't act like you want them to."

"Christine," he says, and rolls his eyes. "Do me a favor and remember you're an intelligent woman."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"That means open your eyes and look around. What, exactly, about the last few months -- hell, the last few _days_ would have given you the idea I would want you to be anything but yourself?"

A shocked laugh escapes her. "What -- how about everything, for starters? You've been yelling at me since day one! It's been perfectly obvious you expect me to do better. To _be_ better."

"I expect that from everyone!" he snaps. "And yeah, I expect you to fight your damn battles and not back down. Do you have any idea what a relief it is that you've never been cowed by me?"

"That's work, that's not what we're talking about--"

"That's _you_ , damn it, and that's exactly what we're talking about." He snorts. "For Christ's sake, you finally let it all out and you show up here, you give me what for when I didn't even do anything wrong, and I swear I've never found anything so attractive in my life. That's _you_."

Christine wants, desperately, to tear her gaze away from the intent challenge in his own, but she finds herself unable to. "Right," she says numbly. "Me. Okay. Here's me. I'm done. I really don't want to talk about this anymore."

He blows out an aggravated breath and grabs her before she can take more than a single step towards the door, towards escape. "Then tell me what the hell it is that you do want," he snaps, pulling her against him. "You came to me, you got that? I was going to let it go but you showed up here and you wanted something from me, that time _and_ this one. So tell me what it is and I'll give it to you, Christine, I swear to fucking _Christ_ I will --"

She sucks in a sharp breath as he wraps his arms around her, his hands incongruously gentle where they settle in the small of her back, and between her shoulder blades. An insistent throbbing makes her squeeze her thighs together. "I don't know," she tries desperately. "That's the problem, I don't know, I don't --"

" _Liar_." He eyes her carefully; she wants to look away, wants it more than anything, but somehow can't. His analytical gaze is almost hypnotic, piercing. He pulls her a little closer and she gasps and he nods, as if to himself. "Yeah, you do. It's right here in front of you, damn it, just say it."

She shudders. "You always -- _men_ ," she corrects herself. "It's like they think I'm made of glass-- what it is about me that says I might break, huh?"

"A man'd have to be an idiot to think that about you," McCoy says with an annoyed look. "And blind."

Christine sighs and goes limp against him. "You did it, too, when it came down to it. You held back with me, like I couldn't handle more. I thought you might be different, but then you weren't. You were like everyone else and it wasn't. Going. To happen."

"I... what, do you think we're all brutes or something? Ever consider the possibility that you might make a man feel something _other_ than a pressing need to get off? That you might make him want to treat you like you're _special_?"

"Maybe I don't want to be special," she snaps, her eyes flashing, and she puts up a renewed show of trying to push away.

"Sorry, honey, there's no helping that." He smiles tightly at her swift tug, her sudden, sharp attempt to free herself. "But if what you're saying is that you want something... more -- that, I think I could manage."

Christine freezes. "No," she says weakly. "That's not -- not what I'm saying."

"Isn't it? Because that's sure as hell what I'm hearing. Let me guess -- you started off with eager kids who toned it down because they didn't want to piss you off and blow their chances. But they were _stupid_ kids, too, and didn't bother making sure you got what you needed." Christine looks away, hates how well he can figure her out, how effortlessly he's sneaking past every wall she's ever put up. "So you started figuring you must just need something different -- but nobody ever gave it to you."

"I don't know," she mumbles again. "I guess. Sure."

"Yeah, figures," he says irritably. He abruptly loosens his hold on her, makes it clear she could step away as easily as taking a breath. She finds both things somewhat impossible, suddenly. "You've got all these theories swimming in your head and you stopped even giving anyone much of a chance to prove them one way or the other. Jesus, you -- okay, here's what I need to know. You want to run off in a stupid huff again, or you want to come to bed and give this thing one more shot?"

The surge of desire that hits her makes her entire body jerk. "You -- you want to?"

"No offense, Chapel," he snaps, suddenly swinging her into his arms and stomping towards his bedroom, "but you are the most impossible, stubborn, deluded woman I have ever met, you know that?"

He drops her on her bed and she looks up at him. "I'm... sorry?"

"Nah, don't worry about it," he mutters, stripping off his clothes. "We're about to take care of the deluded part, anyway."

She drags her uniform over head, sits there uncertainly in just her underwear. "What about the rest?"

"Haven't you been paying attention? I like the rest. I'm a glutton for punishment, Chapel, ask the captain sometime. No, we're just gonna get you more grounded in reality and take it from there." Kneeling on the bed, he looks at her expectantly. "You gonna lie down, or what?"

Christine swings her feet up and slowly eases back until her head hits the pillow. McCoy moves to straddle her, plants his hands on either side of her shoulders. "It's up to you to tell me if anything's too much," he murmurs, just before catching her mouth in a hard, probing kiss. At the first plunge of his tongue she can't help herself, she palms his cheeks and cranes her neck up and kisses him hungrily, unabashedly, makes a sharp, keening noise in response to his rumble of approval. He shifts to balance his weight on one arm and slips his other hand into her underwear, fingers brushing once to test and then plunging without further ado, one and then two pushing in and his thumb pressing firm against her clit.

She squirms into the pressure and moans, feels compelled to mumble, "I don't think that's going to --" even as the ache, the _itch_ builds, even as her hips move.

"Quiet." He bites at her lower lip in warning, but does at least move to wedge his knees between hers and rear back. "You," he adds, pulling her legs up along his chest so he can seize the waistband of her panties and drag them off, "think too damn much."

"I can't exactly help that," she mutters, frowning at him.

"Wrong." He lets her legs splay around him and slips his hands under her, lifts her hips, thrusts deep in one swift move. "Think on that," he says as she gasps. "Let the rest go." Bracing himself on his forearms, he sinks the fingers of one hand into her hair and kisses her again, his lips muffling the moan she can't help as he eases back and surges forward in another long stroke.

Christine curls her legs around him and presses her palms to the base of his back, feels the play of muscles as he puts his hips into establishing a steady rhythm. It feels good, she tells herself, and it _does_ , the heat and weight of his body and the friction of each hard thrust, and the slick warmth of his mouth on hers, on her jaw, on her neck, the whisper of his breath across her skin. Still, though. "Leonard," she forces herself to say. "This isn't--"

He hooks one of her legs with his arm and draws it up, folds it towards her chest, and sensation flares inside her, a taut pressure building. "Oh god," she moans, and bites her lip hard. McCoy laughs breathlessly and pushes up, snaps his hips at an even better angle. The flush of warmth in her chest and face gets worse, positively burning, and she plants her foot against the mattress and strains against him, grappling uselessly for something unfamiliar, something far beyond her, and then --

Then he stops. He withdraws, pushing back on his knees and swiping hair from his brow as she gapes at him and sucks in deep breaths. "What are you -- you bastard, I was--"

"Up," he orders. He grabs her hands and hauls her upright, and pushes and nudges at her until he's got her on her knees with her back to him. "There you go," he murmurs, guiding her hands to the wall and holding them there as he slides back in. Christine drops her head in relief at the renewed fullness. "Okay?"

"Yes," she gets out, then squeaks in surprise as he releases her hands and tugs her hips back a little, wraps his arms around and starts fucking her rapidly. "Oh _god_."

"Tell me how it feels," he mutters in her ear. His hands slide up her waist to cup her breasts, palpate the soft flesh firmly. His pace slows, his strokes going long. "Talk to me, Christine, I want to hear your voice, I want --"

"Harder," she gasps, pushes back against him. "It was, that was -- I want it, please, it felt good --"

"Okay, baby, okay." His fingers curl backwards over her shoulders and he pulls her back, away from the wall and against his chest. He guides one of her arms up and back until she catches on and stretches to wrap her hand around the back of his neck as he nips at her shoulder. Each push of his hips jostles hers forward and deepens the arch of her spine, and each quick pass of his cock presses more firmly against the right spot. What had become an almost unbearably pleasant sensation inside her sharpens, worsens. He chuckles at her helpless, hitching moans. "That better?"

"That's -- oh _god_ , Len, that's good, that's so good." She barely recognizes her own voice, the tone of the wailing moans spilling out of her. "Don't stop, don't stop, you can't -- ah, ah, ahhhhh, harder!"

His arm wraps firmly around her and he fucks her harder than she's ever dared to imagine. "There you go," he grunts, breathlessly. "Okay, you're -- you're gonna come, Christine, you've gotta... _Christ_. Take it, honey, just like that --"

Christine feels on the verge of having every muscle in her body cramp up, she's so tense and aching and absolutely desperate. She's never gotten this close, tears leaking from her eyes and words beyond her capabilities, and _still_ she can't just --

McCoy tugs her head back by her hair and puts his entire body into every thrust, and when he speaks it's with the same tone he uses when he's got some torn-up kid on his table and is snapping for someone to give him a goddamn laser scalpel, already. "Come, Christine," he growls. His other hand slips from her stomach, fingers sliding low to rub across her clit in rough circles. " _Now_."

She screams aloud as the tension finally breaks and her body convulses, muscles contracting hard.

McCoy follows immediately, choking out a curse as his rhythm stutters and abruptly stops. After a pause his hips pump a few final times, each lazy thrust making Christine moan weakly. "Good god _damn_ ," he finally mutters, and pulls out. Christine slumps forward as he releases her, her knees crumbling beneath her, and she groans quietly at reversing the curl of her spine. The bed shifts as McCoy gets up and she moves shakily to lie down. "You need anything?" he calls from the bathroom.

"'m getting up," she mumbles, even as her eyes close.

"What was that?" His voice is closer, and then his hands touch her gently, turning her over. "Oh, hell, aren't you a wreck," he says with amusement, cleaning her with a damp cloth.

She blinks at him blearily, considers responding. Then she just waves her hand weakly and rolls onto her side, curls up and hugs a pillow under her head. "C'mere. I'm cold."

McCoy chuckles quietly and climbs over her, stretches out along her back after pulling the blankets up over them. "So?"

She hugs his arm to her stomach. "I want to do it again."

He groans. "If you think I could pull that off again already," he says with a soft laugh, "I'm flattered. But no way in hell."

"I meant tomorrow," Christine says peevishly. "Unless-- unless you wanted me to go...?"

"Stick one toe off this bed, I dare you." His arm tightens around her and he kisses the back of her shoulder. "So you're already planning to wear me out, huh?"

"You could've just let it go." She presses her face into the pillow, hides her smile even though he can't see her face.

"And miss that?" he grumbles, and nuzzles behind her ear. "Hell no. You were gorgeous, Christine."

"I'm just saying it's your own fault." She laughs as he nips the side of her neck. "And you couldn't even see me."

"Saw enough. I _heard_ enough." His lips move lightly across her skin. "We should sleep. Gotta rest up if I'm gonna see how many I can wring out of you in the morning."

"You can't possibly keep that up very long."

"We'll try some other things. I think I'll eat you out for the first one." She shivers and he smiles into her shoulder. "Fuck you nice and slow for the next."

"That won't work."

"Says you, maybe. First one's the hardest, honey. I'm betting now you know what it's like, you'll find it easier." His hand slips between her legs, his fingers starting to work her slowly. "Give it a shot. Breathe deep and feel it."

Christine squirms, lifts her upper leg to give him room. "I thought you wanted to sleep."

"I do. Just want to make sure you're good and tired." He slides his arm under her and rolls, drags her to lie on top of him. Her legs fall open and she digs her feet into the bed on either side of his knees, pushes her hips up against his hand. "That's it. Good girl."

She twists her torso and angles her head back, catches his mouth clumsily. "You're not horrible," she whispers. "I take it back, I --"

"Shhh." He touches her confidently, somehow managing to interpret every movement, every change in her breathing, and adjust to make it feel better and better. "You're not so bad yourself. Come for me, Christine, let it go."

This one washes over her easily, bows her body up in a languid stretch as her muscles shudder and slowly relax. "Leonard," she moans, going slack atop him. She lets him ease her back onto the bed and then shifts close, wraps her arm over his chest. "Okay. So I guess we can try this your way."

He huffs and kisses the top of her head. "Generous of you."

A sharp, helpless giggle escapes her. "More like selfish enough to take whatever you're offering."

For a long moment, he just rubs her back in long, sweeping strokes. "I'm offering you everything," he finally says steadily. "Anything you want."

Slowly, Christine lifts her head and rests her chin on his chest, gazes at him. He gazes right back, a slight twist in his mouth telling her how sated and satisfied he is. "The nursing staff," she says lightly. "They're mine."

"Sure." He flicks a lock of hair out of her eyes. "Just so you know, they're not the only ones."


End file.
